Death to Geniuses
by onskidrow
Summary: All humans must be equal, right? But what happens when Konoha's geniuses are persecuted for the sake of equality? [Kakashi and Itachi centric] [AU]
1. The Essence of Inequality

**Notes:** I was thinking about how the Naruto world prizes its geniuses so very much, and wondered what would happen if it were the other way around—if its geniuses were prosecuted and killed for the sake of equality. Keep in mind that in this world, if you're labeled a prodigy, you're screwed. Therefore, if you were smarter than the rest, you'd best shut up and pretend to be stupid or else.

"Great spirits have always encountered opposition from mediocre minds."  
—Albert Einstein

* * *

Ten years after the incident, he found a dusty note buried beneath the anthill windowsill— 

_All humans must be equal, right? Prodigies are the essence of inequality and therefore are a danger to the village of Konoha.  
The mediocre live on and the ingenious falter._

—Sakumo

But that was ten years too late.

* * *

The boy sat quietly on the wooden bench, fingers tracing the kunai engravings that laced his seat. His dull eyes scanned the horizon, looking for his father's figure to decorate the premises. Around him, his classmates' boisterous voices were shouting as they engaged themselves in a game of tag, a game he longed to join. The boy looked down at his lap, mouth pulled tightly into a frown. They were always whispering. Always. Something about his father, something about the man being too... 

"...perfect."

"Yeah, that damn Hatake, doesn't know how to follow the rules..."

"Uh huh, don't know nothing 'bout equality..."

"...never understood striving for his goals..."

"...always got what he wanted on a silver platter...bet his son's like that too."

The first time he'd heard the hushed conversations, he hadn't understood what a "silver platter" was. He'd tried asking his father, but the man's face had crumpled and turned away, as if repulsed by the very words. His clammy hands had gripped Kakashi's shoulder, and he'd whispered in a disheartened voice, "Forget those words. They…they don't mean much." But his hand was shaking as it retreated from his shoulder, and Kakashi knew.

Lies, the lot of them.

* * *

It had begun with a mission—a dangerous one, to Wave Country. From the hour when his father had been debriefed to the hour of his departure, he'd been listless and skittish, as if constantly in a daze. Attempts to talk to the man were brushed off in favor of observing electromagnetic waves strike their windowpane. No goodbyes were exchanged upon his departure; Sakumo had disappeared without ever informing his son. 

Kakashi spent the next few days at home, excusing himself from school under the pretense of sickness. His days were spent in idleness as he watched an unruly line of ants make their way up and down his windowsill, carrying tidbits of food to their enclave under the sill. For a brief moment, he imagined himself a hawk looming over Wave Country, watching as the ants, that is, his father and teammates, executed their mission with swift solidity.

Three days passed, and a red circle on his calendar indicated that this was the scheduled day of his father's return. He unlatched the door (though it was still early morning), leapt outside (despite repercussions if being seen playing hooky), and hid in a thicket of branches a foot away from his ant-watching windowsill, awaiting his father's return. An hour passed. A man with dark hair and a jarring scar across his cheek approached the door, a scroll in one hand and a kunai in the other. Kakashi watched him curiously from his vantage point in the bushes, though curiosity soon turned to fear. Three hours passed. The scarred man had left with annoyance flickering about his face, irate that Sakumo was not home. Another hour passed. Boredom and the insufferable heat of the sun soon crept in, and he occupied his time by working out a surprise attack on his father.

Noon turned to mid-afternoon, and it soon became too hot to continue his hiding (the smell of his sweat would surely give him away), so he promptly henged himself into a bucket of water. But it did little to relieve his odor problem—he was still too hot, too smelly, too easily recognized by a shinobi's sensitive nose. A genjutsu would've been perfect for this situation, but he knew none that he could hold at lengths of time, nor any that would've tricked his father. Beads of sweat trickled down his neck, as if reminding him that it was time to admit defeat.

He sighed, resigned for the night, and succumbed to the coolness of his room. He came back the next day, and the next, and the next. No sign of his father.

But when his father returned a week later, a mangled, bloody mess with streaks of dirt decorating his face, Kakashi was in no mood for surprises—something was wrong. Very wrong.

He brought water, towels, and the (secret) stash of bandages he'd discovered in their house's attic a year ago, all the while wondering why his father hadn't gone to the hospital. And when he'd prodded for a reason, his father waved him off, coughing a bitter, "I can take care of my own wounds." But his gaze was averted and his injury so serious that Kakashi knew the truth was hidden behind a patchwork of lies, too deep to unearth with a simple shovel.

* * *

The next day, early in the morning, a knock echoed from the doorway, a stark cold thump. Kakashi, slightly concerned that an Academy teacher had finally decided to seek him out for his weeklong disappearance, stayed put in his father's room, praying that he wouldn't be the one to answer the door. To his surprise and relief, his father instructed him to leave the door alone, which he surmised had something to do with the results of his father's mission. Had a teammate come to seek his father out to reprimand him for skirting a round in the hospital? Was it a teammate hoping to fit a drink in before their next dangerous outing? 

Three days later, when he finally decided to put an end to his class-cutting and was on his way to the Academy, he'd overheard his teacher cursing his father's name (to a fruit vendor)—something about the man being too damn faultless and not knowing his place, followed by an irate sneer. The fruit vendor bobbed his head in agreement, and the two continued to vent their bouts of anger. Cursing his father was a rather commonplace action, but the new barrage of curse words directed his way seemed to be intertwined with the current mission. Kakashi darted around the fruit vendor's stand, vowing to piece together this new puzzle by the end of the day.

He hadn't dared (or bothered) to raise his hand in class that day, knowing that the teacher would just cast him a withering glare, a glare that was really meant for his father.

They spent the bulk of the school day talking about aiming kunai.

That afternoon, he'd found his father's name in the newspaper, emboldened and at large in the headlines. He read the article in haste, an editorial describing his father's heinous exploits on the battlefield, critiquing the man's lack of tact for Konoha's "equality for all" slogan. He'd gulped, terrified, and reread the previous sentence, hands suddenly tightening around the paper. There were no lies—"Hatake Sakumo, has, once again, flaunted his lack of respect for Konoha's law system, this time through the disregard of our EFA slogan." Kakashi's eyes widened as the words percolated into his brain—this was the drill repeated incessantly at the Academy—"A supporter of flawed ideologies such as_ social darwinism_ are to be given…"

"…a six year jail sentence. You hear?" A rough, masculine voice rumbled from a few feet behind the newsstand.

"Yeah. I mean, finally, we get some justice. He's been a damn prodigy for too long, pollutin' our waters."

"Hell, these geniuses just cause stress for us ordinary folk…an' they're frigging arrogant too, always braggin' 'bout how much better they are then us. Can't stand 'em."

"Glad to see he's finally gonna be put in his pla—"

His limbs were quivering spastically at the strangers' harrowing conclusions; his mind was whirling in some off-center universe. His father…the man he'd admired for the last six years of his life, was being—what? Paper grasped tightly in hand, he dived from the bench he'd been crouching on (nearly tripping in his haste) in a mad rush toward home. At the very least, he needed to catch one glimpse of his father, one last glimpse before they sent the man off to incarceration.

That single, fleeting moment was when he first began to question the law.

* * *

The strangers he'd left behind sneered at his sudden departure, taking it as the sign of a frail mind. In a slurred, hoarse voice, he muttered, "That's the Hatake brat, ain't he? Betcha my next paycheck he'll turn out jus' like his father…" 

Raucous laughter complemented the stranger's statement, marking cheerful agreement from his conversation partner.

* * *

Red paint intertwined with blue splotches in a series of pictographs, pictographs depicting the events of Hatake Sakumo's mission. Roughly sketched Rain-nin with heads too small and bodies too big laced each panel, along with a glorified picture of Sakumo killing them in each. By the time Kakashi had taken in the scene, his front yard (where the mocking cartoons had lay their roots) was crowded with rowdy villagers and resentful shinobi, all who were demanding the exile of his father. The logical side of his mind told him to flee (who knew what these men with sharp, shiny stuff could do!), but his feet froze in spot, as though rooted to the earth. 

Luckily, the villagers paid him no mind and continued their senseless rioting, leaving Kakashi entrenched in his imagination. As he stood on what now looked like enemy territory, he vaguely recalled his fleeting moment of law questioning, something proclaimed as thoughts of the "trash" in the Academy. It left him feeling torn, like some tattered cloth two merchants had cleaved in half to appease each other, with no thought of its welfare.

"Where do your loyalties lie?" was a common question in the Academy, with its answer (Not Konoha, not Suna, not Iwa, but Oto) being phrased as a code to weed out invaders. The Academy answer was delegated to the furrows of his mind as the indignant cries of rebels tramping about his lawn made their way to his ears. What would a realistic answer to the question would be. Konohagakure no sato? His father?

His thoughts were left incomplete as a shrill screech behind the crowds shattered his trance. His body whirled to face the source of the noise, watching in frozen trepidation as the door to his house opened, inch by inch, degree by degree. His mouth hung slightly ajar (though no words found their way through) and his eyebrows creased in concern with every push.

The long-awaited Hatake Sakumo was finally out in the open.

The crowd's jeers exploded, thrilled that the convicted had finally shown himself. They closed in, like predators on prey, baring their teeth and grinning with feigned ferocity. Kakashi eyed his father, but Sakumo's face remained neutrally blank, carefully avoiding his gaze. It was the same withering loss of life that Kakashi had observed the night of the mission debriefing—the loss that had augmented and was slowly ingesting Sakumo's persona. Staring at the lifeless man, guilt coursed through his veins and his limbs willed to dive to the bushes, bury his head beneath the leaves, and muffle the sounds of the congregation, of the condemning jury. The crowd, the sickly satisfied crowd, ignored his pleas.

His vision felt blurred as he watched a man, the same scarred man who'd knocked at the door days earlier, rush through the crowd, another scroll in hand. There was a grave, apathetic look upon his face, a look sure to bring about an admission of guilt from his father. Within seconds, the man's hand had itself curled about Sakumo's shirt, jerking the shinobi toward the crowd.

"Uchiha." Sakumo spat the word, stressing each syllable with fury. Kakashi strained himself, leaning on his toes, attempting to catch a glimpse of the Uchiha clan logo on the man's back. What met his eyes was a tattered white and red fan, like torn paint off a collapsing fence. He knew why his father was angry. The Uchiha were a clan of prodigies, and more often than not, Konohagakure would be on their cases, questioning the inheritors of the Sharingan. And yet, when it came to a fellow genius, they showed no mercy, treating each case as though battering away competition. And perhaps they were.

Scarface Uchiha whipped out his scroll, and spread it in front of Sakumo's face. His face was expressionless, there was no satisfied sneer, no mocking laughter, no lingering sympathy like would've been expected. Six simple words were etched there, in dark red ink, a color used exclusively to condemn criminals:

**HATAKE SAKUMO: SIX-YEAR PRISON SENTENCE**

He scrutinized his father's face, hoping to see a trace of regret, a dash of melancholy, but it mimicked the Uchiha's—expressionless. The Uchiha made a hand motion in the direction of the police station, and his father was led away, offering no resistance. Perhaps he'd known, known for too long that this incident would happen. Perhaps he'd guessed that this would be the case days before his return, and had long given up on defiance. Perhaps... No matter his thoughts, his father was leaving. _Going, going..._

With every step that his father took forward, every step that led him closer to the incarceration center, Kakashi took a step back, feet sinking into the soft mud. There was no need to watch the procession anymore, for the crowd's cheers, the crowd's inhuman cheers, were the only thing left. _...gone._

It was the second time in his short six years of life that he'd ever questioned the law.

* * *

The next few days, he went to school dutifully, hoping to evade suspicion from the Konohagakure government. But the whispers were everywhere now, surrounding him, like a mountain of sand, ready to suffocate him. He took his usual seat at the back of the classroom, shrouded behind the safety of the tall boy before him. They were reviewing the uses of genjutsu.** _genjutsu (n)._**_ techniques that use chakra to create illusions, used to distract the enemy_. He recited the dictionary definition over and over in his mind, hoping to be ready when he was... 

"Kakashi, what is one use of genjutsu?"

Whispering...whispering...they were whispering again. His hands latched onto the edge of his desk, survival instincts kicking into full gear. Whispering...why did they have to whisper about him? Survive, live on...not be like his father...

"Gen-genjutsu? Wh-wha...um...they can be used...when...a person dies to...to clean up the body."

A wave laughter filled the classroom; the answer, his answer, was ridiculous. He breathed a sigh of relief, a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. He was glad—their laughter, their deafening laughter had drowned out the whispers invading his mind. When he chanced a glance up again, the teacher was already facing elsewhere, busy quizzing another on the usage of genjutsu. He smiled. So a pretense of stupidity did pay off after all. Who would've known? He remained triumphant the rest of the day, silently applauding himself for his _genius_.

His luck ran out three weeks later.

**End Notes: **This is more of an epic story, so expect more soon (next chapter will probably focus on Itachi). Oh, and concrit is welcome and appreciated! (So are flames, if you're wondering)


	2. The Spirit of the People

**Chapter 2 The Spirit of the People**

**Notes:** I had to alter Itachi's age a bit (they're both six) or else Kakashi would be 14 while attempting to work with a five-year-old. I'm inclined to say that at 14, you don't offer much respect to 5 year-olds. Oh, and unbeta-ed; I just wanted to get the chapter out here.

* * *

_"When you think of the long and gloomy history of man, you will find more hideous crimes have been committed in the name of obedience than have ever been committed in the name of rebellion."_

—C. P. Snow

* * *

According to the tally on the wall, he hadn't seen light for nearly six months. And at the rate he was going, he would probably never see light again. The rutted walls and dusty floor had long replaced his family, replaced a family whose faces had fallen from his memory. The bars aligning the cell were now his father—erect in grave solemnity, mouth pushing downwards in a frown; the floor was his mother, cradling him from every mistake, wrapping up his wounds. 

But he could not love the iron bars and slippery floor the way he'd loved his parents, could not appreciate any deeds they'd done for him—after all, who could love those that had imprisoned him, that vowed to keep him forever in darkness? And so his first emotion every morning was hatred, an emotion that he was all too familiar with, an emotion he'd learned to embrace even while under the clutches of the infamous Uchiha clan.

And the clan, the clan was now no more than a figment of his imagination. It had been phased into the back of his mind, along with his parents to make room for the new entity called 'survival'. And it was not an easy entity to embrace, not like the entity of 'optimism', or that of 'happiness'. To his chagrin, Itachi realized that the entity required blood sacrifices, required every person who crossed his path as a donation to its cause.

He had never met a more selfish entity.

That night, he fell asleep within his mother's arms, eyes gladly welcoming the respite from the jailor's haunted, disillusioned eyes.

* * *

_Clink. Creeeeaaak._

The sound of doors opening was the first thing that pervaded his ears, a raucous screech that grated on his eardrums. Though his eyes had not yet opened, he could already see patches of red permeating his retina, a glow that was habitually replaced with a pitch-black abyss. The child-at-heart half of him roared with delight, sure that he was finally to be freed. But the world-weary, jaded psyche honed from six months within slab walls refuted the futile idea of release.

His eyes could no longer stand the curiosity his mind proposed and promptly exposed themselves to the barren world. They blinked, suddenly watery at the unexpected brightness of the unfamiliar light source. As he forced his eyes to remain slightly ajar, a single beam of light slit his face, stemming from a fracture in the maximum-security prison-house door.

Within seconds, the light snuffed, leaving behind bouts of mad shuffling and muffled gasps.

Itachi turned, surprised at the appearance of a boy no older than him, hands and feet bound with chains. The cell had always reserved solely for him, as the Leaf had been too afraid to place him in close proximity of another being. For them to send in another such child must've meant they were of similar disposition and status, condemned of severing human equality. As he gave the other boy a sullen, weary stare, he allowed himself the luxury of a faint smile—no longer would he be the only one tallying up the days spent without light. No longer.

The other boy positioned himself far from Itachi, head arched toward the ceiling, as though inciting the heavens for an early release. Having been left behind columns of iron for an eon, Itachi wanted to shake the newcomer and shout, "There's no such thing as early release, you damn fool!" But there was no point in antagonizing his first cellmate, so he restrained the urge, the desperate urge to forewarn.

Restraint. _T__he act of holding back from action, of repression_. Ever since he'd stepped into the Academy at the tender age of five, it was the first word he'd reiterated to himself over and over in his mind. To restrain, to keep back meant to stay alive, to remain in the working world for one more day. To show off, to be himself meant one step closer to being fettered with shackles.

After a week of attending the Academy, he'd garnered nothing of use on the field. Precious little time had been spent on shuriken and kunai practice, the fundamentals even a failing Academy student was to have learned. Rather, he'd found out that answering as many questions right as wrong would leave him with a piece of caramel candy, courtesy of the teacher. Answer more questions right than wrong, and he'd be left with a splenetic glower, no record of sweets in sight. What kid in his right mind _wouldn't_ have taken the candy?

Because of the incitement of candy, within days, he'd become the pride of his family, a family that forever sought mediocrity. For the Uchiha, to produce a law-abiding, non-criminal boy was unheard of and much in demand. The only other boy who'd managed to achieve such a status was a cousin of his by name of Obito. Obito, a boy with spiky black hair and orange goggles.

Their first meeting had left him empty—weeks upon months of keeping up their pretense of stupidity had left them both drained. Veneers were not as easy to keep up as he'd thought, especially not while around another master of such masks.

Their second meeting had cast a lingering feeling in the back of his mind—a feeling that told him Obito's stupidity was more than a mask, that the boy truly fit in with their society. It left a bitter undertone to his speech that night, a pent up jealousy bursting at the seams with every utterance. Such a rarity among the Uchiha, he'd thought. Such a goddamned rarity. Why couldn't the genes of this boy be spliced into him? Why couldn't he drop his façade and still be the child society cherished and tended to with all their hearts? How could his _**damned**_ cousin achieve everything so effortlessly, so seamlessly, so…

He began to hate, and hatred was the inception of it all.

Hatred had wore down his mask, shredded his defenses like sandpaper. He became too focused on _hating_, and forgot his mask, forgot the need, the _absolute_ need to survive. The incident that triggered it had been a simple task—to aim kunai at a sandbag human. The teacher had not expected, no, had not _wanted_ them to succeed, all of which was in accordance with Konohagakure's equality laws.

He was still lost in thought at the announcement, still too busy glaring at those around him for being handed society's love on a silver platter. So when his hand had grappled around the kunai's edge, thumb tacking one end and fingers curling about the other, the much-too-often practice sessions he'd set for himself at home paid off. The kunai left his hand at a speed much-too-fast for Academy students, and promptly struck a spot millimeters above the center of sandbag-man's heart. A fatal strike, had it been in the field.

The teacher had cast him a withering glance, but it seemed more weary than usual. His classmates, who had once been in a line behind the sandbag-human, were currently encircling Itachi; in awe or in resentment he did not know. He turned to his teacher then, mouth pulled tightly in worry, whispering, "That…that was a lucky shot. Everybody gets 'em sometimes."

The Academy teacher said nothing, face predictably appalled, and ushered the rest of the students in, leaving Itachi to survey his mess with the sandbags.

The fatal strike prompted healthy suspicion from authorities, suspicion expected for an above-average Uchiha. Question after question poured in, often sealed in scrolls that topped several feet long. Itachi had left the scrolls to his father (though _he_ was supposed to fill them in), who had long achieved status as the Uchiha clan's _pro bono _lawyer, efficiently dealing with all affairs entangling the clan with Konohagakure. The clan had been disillusioned, he remembered, angry that they were deluded into believing the existence of Itachi's mediocrity. It was, he later understood, another blow to their reputation.

The interrogation scrolls came by daily, and he soon became curious as to the contents they'd held. One night, while his father was busy with a patrol job, he'd snuck into his father's study and snatched a set of scrolls for perusing. He'd tore open the wrap nimbly, and found three scrolls marked with swatches bright red, and he'd cringed. Bright red was the color instigating criminals.

Ten days later, he'd found himself shoved face-first onto a slimy floor, the same floor he was currently sitting on.

Beautiful.

* * *

The boy at the other end of the cell looked dazed; no movements had come from his direction for the last hour. Itachi wondered if such had been his reaction when first finding himself behind bars—he couldn't remember, and there'd been no one to observe him. All he'd recalled from the night was the guard stationed there; a rather good-natured, happy-go-lucky man who'd offered him rice with fish. (Every other guard had simply taken the luxury of seafood for himself) But the guard was transferred out the very next day, dragging Itachi's hopes of a normal life within prison away. 

He closed his eyes, suddenly remembering how bored he was. He'd had no shortage of listlessness ever since his first night in prison—no books, no games, no communicating with the guards, all for fear of "corrupting the minds of the youth." He looked at the new boy again, wondering if they could somehow find a way to hook up, to speak without the guards' knowledge. Then perhaps they could worm their way to esca—_Fat chance_, a sardonic voice in his mind reminded, _the damn guards will cave your head in before that ever happens._ And it was true.

_Creeeeaaak. _The prison doors had opened the second time that day.

A guard walked over, red-wrapped scroll in hand. Itachi pulled back hesitantly, afraid that the scroll contained his death sentence. It was known to happen around Konohagakure, and he knew the only thing holding them back was his youth. At six, he'd have to be the youngest citizen they'd ever executed—

"Uchiha Itachi," the guard's voice, a flat voice, devoid of emotion, spoke, "Hokage-sama requests your presence in the discussion of the duration of your sentence."

Two brisk strides later, the guard forced Itachi onto his feet, giving the boy's cramped legs a kick for good measure. Stinging pains emanated from the sole of his feet with each step toward the door, pains from having sat on his feet for too long. The guard unlatched the door, paying no mind to Itachi's sudden retreat in response to the brightness, and promptly shoved him outside. He walked the rest of the trip lethargically, chains clanging as they hit the concrete floor.

Ten minutes of chain-floor clashing occurred before their arrival. The guard announced, "Hokage-sama, Uchiha Itachi has arrived."

"Ah, thank you for bringing him here, Koujiro-san," the Hokage flashed the guard a slight smile in thanks before motioning for Itachi to move in and the guard to move out. He followed the old man's silent orders without hesitation, afraid that any deviation could lead to his death.

"Itachi, I'm sure you know why you are there."

Itachi offered him a nod, eyes looking past the Hokage's face. It was an art he'd perfected under the glower of his Academy teachers—the art of never gazing directly into a man's eyes, but still looking as though his vision were not averted.

"Good. I've reviewed your case, and, to be frank with you, the Elders have proposed your execution at the termination of your sentence in three months. As I'm sure you would not wish that, I have an offer to make of you. Would you be willing to accept?"

Itachi scratched his palm mindlessly, attempting to alleviate the itch plaguing the center of his hand while speaking, "Hokage-sama, I'd be willing to consider."_ To consider, _he told himself carefully, _does not mean to agree_.

"Alright then. You saw other boy currently in your cell, no?"

Another curt nod from Itachi.

"He has been convicted of one count of treason, three counts of fraud and five counts of blatant disregard for equality."

That was unsurprising, Itachi decided. Nearly every man who occupied a jail cell had been convicted of several counts of "blatant disregard for equality," in addition to other sentences often meted out at the same time.

"Your mission, if you accept, is to interrogate him about _all_ his prior actions, much of which he has not yet admitted to us. I expect you to do this subtly, without his knowledge that you are doing anything out of the ordinary. I will give you a list of topics to focus on finding answers to and you will be called here once per week to explain your findings. You have five minutes to decide." The Hokage jabbed a finger toward his office clock.

Itachi swung around, chains clattering about the wood floor, turning to face the clock. He had precisely four minutes and fifty-five seconds left to make a decision. If he agreed, there'd be no absurd execution, _and _he'd be given a chance to talk to the boy without repercussions. But playing the spy would involve unspeakable dangers, especially if either of them were found out. On the other hand, if he _didn't_ agree, he'd be dead within months, and any attempts to speak with the boy would probably be taken as a conspiracy. His body tensed at the illogicality, letting his hands jerk out against the bounds of the iron chain. Damn the Hokage! Another jolt of the chains. It was as if every damned word the man had spouted was meant to engineer him to process his thoughts in an approved manner. A single deviation from the norm and he'd be—

"So, Itachi, has your decision been reached yet?" A look at the clock confirmed that time was now up. Oh, how he hated this man's voice…how he longed to smash this old Hokage's windpipe…

"I…" he trailed off, still unsure, mind constantly in limbo. Then, in a sudden urge to wrap up his answer, and he muttered, "…accept." Whatever consequences there were, he'd just have to deal with later.

The Hokage nodded, fingering the hat on his head so that it would remain in balance. "Good, good. I'll send the papers with you to Koujiro-san. I hope your mission is successful, for your sake."

_Really, Hokage-sama? For my sake, or yours?_

Then, as though reading his mind, the Hokage added, "If not, I'm sure you'll understand the consequences." Translation: If the mission is unsuccessful, your death will be certain.

* * *

Being behind bars was a novel experience. When he'd first been thrust in, the haggard, dark-haired boy that occupied half his cell had given him an unreadable look, as though curious at the sight of another being his age. Several hours later, his cellmate was led away at the beckoning of a guard, to be released or interrogated he did not know. All he could do was pray for the best, even if he had never known the boy in his life. 

His first morning, and he was already feeling the onslaught of nonstop boredom and incessant hunger. He hadn't managed to down a single morsel for the last five meals and lack of clean water was plaguing his parched throat. His head throbbed, instigating from the root of his cranium and slowly spreading to every nook and crevice of his brain. Kakashi leaned back, resting his head against the wall, attempting to soothe the pain that afflicted his mind. His attempts led him nowhere, and within half-an-hour, he found his eyelids sagging, a sharp pain still protruding from his head.

Twenty minutes later, he gave in to his eyes' tireless demands.

He awoke with a sharp pain emanating from his stomach, as though someone had taken the time to deliver multiple stab wounds there. His hands flopped about under the weight of the chains, attempting to alleviate his stomach pains. Another round of throbbing enthused, and he soon found himself face-to-face with a baton. A baton that was heading straight for his intestines.

"Hmph. Took you a while to wake yourself," a sharp voice remarked, then paused a moment before continuing, "Get up. You've got yourself a session with the T&I unit." The guard who'd come to visit him followed up with another jab of the baton. He winced slightly, pulling back.

Staring at the blank face of the guard, he realized something—this was his chance. A week and three days ago he'd still held Konoha's law in high esteem. With a few demerits, yes, but still _high_. This morning, however, he'd promised himself that he would do _everything_ in his capability to flout Konoha's laws—anything was fair game as long as it did not hinder his chances of survival. Anything, and here was his chance.

Turning to the guard, he growled, eyes flashing, "I've already told you _everything_ I know." It was a cold, feral snarl, one that left his eyebrows furrowed in constant irritation. The baton-waver took a step back, as though surprised at having confronted the tiger in its cave.

But the man's recovery came just as quickly as his astonishment—"Don't lie to us, _brat_. Konoha knows your facts are inconsistent. You're not in a position to bargain so you'd better cooperate, you _freak._"

Kakashi wasn't finished. The man's words stung (calling him a _freak_?!), and letting it go would be a sign of weakness, a sign that he'd finally given in to the system. The damned system he'd vowed on his _life_ to break. "I've _cooperated_ for the longest time!" he retorted heatedly, "I tried my best to give others a chance, and there is nothing more to tell! You can't ask me something I don't know!" And it was true. They'd dried every bit of juice within him, every droplet of—

A sudden blow from the baton silenced him, and he fell back, gasping for air.

"You, give others a chance? Since"—a shove against his ribs—"when have"—a gouge into his stomach—"you _ever _understood the life of your average shinobi? What the hell do you know? Ah? Well? Enlighten me."

His speech finished with a sneer.

"I—I've—"

Another blow landed itself on his ribcage, cutting him off.

"_Shut. Up_." Hatred stemmed from the guard's eyes, an unreasonable, uncontrollable hatred as he continued his speech. "Lemme f—ing tell you your place—you have _no right_ to talk. You think it's nice to brag? To shove your accomplishments in others' faces? You think it's okay for you to just do _everything_ right and mock those who don't? Well, _fuck_, you know nothing about society, you know absolutely NOTHING!"

The cadence of the man's voice echoed in the air, adding a somber, heavy tilt to the atmosphere. Kakashi cringed, terrified of the man's accusations, and then shouted back with just as much fervor—"I've told you everything." An incensed retort, coupled with the addition of a snarled, "_Every.__ Single_. _Damned. _Thing."

His voice had become hoarse with his shouting tirade.

"You expect us to believe you? You traitor,"—here the man let out a deep nasal growl—"we won't _ever_ believe the likes of you. You think you deserve to be treated better? Huh?"—here the guard gave Kakashi's ribs a prod—"Why don't you look at the way you've treated the rest of us? The way you've just brushed off every other person as useless, just 'cause you think you're fucking better than them! Well guess what? You reap what you sow, you arrogant _**bastard**_."

Sharp breathing followed the man's disparaging comments. Breathing that was the premonition of a no-bars-held fight.

Kakashi couldn't ever remember being this angry, seeing nothing but the essence of blind rage. He'd only had one experience with crime committing before, but never, ever had the heated diction meant for his father been directed his way. Never had he heard Konoha's caustic accusations face-to-face—it had always been expressed subtly, behind his back.

The pit of his mind in flames, he protested dully, "You don't know me! I never did those things—I never once bragged! I always kept what I did to myself. This is you, _**you**_ coming up with stupid fantasies!"

"Fantasies? **Fantasies?**" The veins on the guard's neck bulged, leaving his face a dark tinge of pink. "You stupid brat! How the _**hell**_ are you supposed to know the _humiliation_ felt when others watched you aim shuriken after shuriken spot on?" He paused here, as though waiting for an answer. But before Kakashi could formulate a coherent one, he continued, voice raspy and eyes bulging, "No, you've never even made a mista—"

"That's not true!" A deep-seated protest… "I didn't—"

Once again he was silenced, this time with a well-aimed strike to the head. He crumpled to the floor, arms going limp as he fell amongst the sea of chains. A single thought coursed through his mind as he was falling victim to unconsciousness—Nothing…nothing would change. His words were empty, useless…because after all…

...the law lived on in the spirit of the people.

* * *

**End Notes:** The Hokage isn't the wily, deceiving person (he's more like the canon Hokage, hence why he gave Itachi a chance to live) that Itachi portrayed him as; this is just Itachi's point of view. And how Kakashi made it into jail will be discussed later, as things unfold. There's also a reason for them to be so harsh on Itachi, but that lies in the way Uchiha Fugaku filled out those scrolls. 


	3. In Perspective

**Chapter 3 In Perspective**

**Disclaimer:** Naruto does not belong to moi. Plot does, but inspiration drawn from history (say China's Cultural Revolution (intellectuals are akin to the "genius" shinobi here), Stalin's rule of the USSR, Kim Il Sung of North Korea, reeducation camps by the CCP…so on and so forth)

**Notes:** Thanks to **vertigo showgirl **for betaing. :) The chapter is mostly focused on those around Itachi and Kakashi this time (say Obito and Fugaku). Late update because my computer died. (Hard drive, my poor hard drive!) Google Docs saved my life though, I had a copy saved there that I forgot about until I checked.

* * *

"_I believe there are monsters born in the world to human parents. Some you can see, misshapen and horrible, with huge heads or tiny bodies…And just as there are physical monsters, can there not be mental or psychic monsters born?"_

—John Steinbeck in _ East of Eden_

* * *

**one**

He was on the 56th line in the scroll, on a paragraph about his son's nonexistent exploits, when—

"You can't—you can't!" It was his wife's voice, a pained, indignant screech, a strained protest barely heard in the midst of trepidation. "You know our son is not a criminal! And yet you—you write these lies! Lies! How could you?"—a fervent shake of the head—"How could you, Fugaku?" Her eyes were wild, wild, filled with a mounting desolation, a hidden fervor he'd never witnessed before. Her voice was shaking, each syllable coming forth in tremulous bursts. But he offered her no sympathy, no comfort.

"Mikoto," he'd said, whirling in his chair, voice blasé, "to Konoha, our son is a criminal. The law does not have time for your biases and favoritism."

"Biases? Favoritism? You…you must be out of your mind! This is our son you're talking about, our son! Do you have so little trust in him, so little trust that the incident was a mere accident?" Her head shook in rhythm with her words; her face marred by scant lines of apprehension.

"Trust?" he snarled, a sudden urge of vindictiveness surging through him, "You expect me to trust? Trust, in a boy like him? He's been hiding his abilities this whole goddamned time. Hell, you don't learn to throw shuriken like that in a day—the damned child's been practicing, practicing when he knows that it's illegal. It's time he learns to respect the laws—it's time you quit coddling him!"

"He's a child, Fugaku! For heaven's sake, a six-year-old child! You can't expect him to know every detail of our law, you can't expect him to—"

"Enough!" His voice descended into a roar, like a mad bull, drowning out any words of dissent. Then he turned on her, ready to charge at any swatch of red, "A child," he'd sneered, mouth twisted in disgust, "a child so he can murder men as he pleases? A child, so he can flout Konoha's laws and get away without charges? A child, so he deserves—"

"A child, so he needs a second chance! A child because no children get it right the first time! Is it this impossible for Itachi to have an accident? Is it this—"

"He was doomed from the very beginning! He was hiding, concealing his true nature from us. If I had known earlier—"

"Known _earlier_? If you had known **_earlier_**, _what_ would you have **_done_**, Fugaku? What would you have _done_? Would he be dead by now? Would you have murdered him in cold blood just to save your oh-so-precious clan? Is your son's life worth selling for the satisfaction of a group of strangers? Well? Is it? Is it?" Her hands gripped the table to support herself, to support her shaking, flailing body as she spoke. Tears streamed down her cheek, the result of a mad concoction between fury and exasperation.

_The rift had grown so quickly; barely weeks into the game, just weeks, and his wife already hated him. Truly, truly hated him._

* * *

**two**

The Hokage smiled upon seeing Fugaku, a strained, anxious smile.

"I'm glad you've taken the time to bring us these scrolls"—Another tense, apprehensive smile—"Makes our lives so much easier. You understand that this means your son will be interrogated less?"

Fugaku nodded tersely, barely meeting the Hokage's eyes. _Safe. We're all safe._

The Hokage patted Fugaku's shoulder, as though attempting to comfort him, and spoke, "I am sorry for your son. His predicament is no more than the result of awry genetics, a matter entirely out of your control."

Fugaku nodded in assent, and murmured, "Yes, but awry genetics, all the same, need to be contained. More often than not they can turn into the embodiment of…of…evil." He hesitated in saying the words, in calling his son, his only son, "evil". _But it's the proper way to word things; it's the way high-standing shinobi labeled criminals, _ Yashio had said. Criminals...

Sarutobi cast him a curious gaze, seemingly surprised. "Evil, hm? It's hard to say so conclusively." He fingered into his desk drawer, pulling forth a picture of a boy Fugaku had never seen before—black hair and elongated eyes decorated the inside of the frame. "I once had a student," the Hokage murmured, pointing at the picture, "by name of Orochimaru. They called him 'evil'—even his teammates…even they concurred with the common opinion. Countless times he's saved our village, countless times, but…his morals? No one can say for sure. He's abnormal, yes. I've seen him on more than one occasion, mouthing insults at his teammates, sneering at them behind their backs. He was always off doing his own thing, hardly ever congregating with them, and they thought he hated them. It was his isolation, I suppose, his isolation that was read as arrogance, a trait that the villagers labeled 'evil'."

When Fugaku said nothing, the Hokage continued, "But can such arrogance be called 'evil'? It's a sin, yes, a sin we ought to steer our youth away from, but 'evil' is such a strong word, a word more of despair than anything else."

Fugaku nodded silently, observing Sarutobi with measured circumspect. Fugaku saw no problem with casting Konoha's gone-awry youth as "evil"-- after all, though it did not solve the problem of "evil"'s existence and continued procreation, it at least kept them wary of their monstrous nature, and prevented them from embracing their roots. Those damned roots that had produced unimaginable monstrosities akin to the Mist's Seven Swordsmen and the Cloud's Jinchuuriki...Konoha could do without them, do without coups and rebellions and massacres and...

The Hokage paced about his desk, mumbling to himself almost inaudibly, "...we incarcerate so many, so, so many that we can hardly tell how many of those will turn out to be monsters. I don't believe that what we've done hasn't saved Konoha from mad missing-nins, and I suppose precaution is better than nothing. But…ah Fugaku, it's all in perspective. Love...it causes more hatred than hatred itself." The Hokage shook his head, mouth pursing in distate. Fugaku thought he might've caught a bitterness laced in the man's voice, a bitterness that he hadn't dared voice before.

The two sat in silence, both uncomfortable with their line of conversation.

Then the Hokage ventured tentatively—"Fugaku, there's something I've been meaning to ask you..." The Hokage trailed off, hesitating, hands fingering the scroll Fugaku had just given him gingerly. Fugaku became tense, afraid of the old man's words. Everything he'd just spoken had struck a nerve within Fugaku, every word, every sentence—

"Fugaku..." the Hokage trailed off, voice becoming no more than a whisper, "...do you...do you care about your son? Love him, even?"

Fugaku looked away. Love...Itachi? No, he did not love his son. No, he could not care for someone…like…that. A psychologically disfigured child, a child who was the perfect shinobi, a child who could practice the art of killing without any revulsion. Such a child could not be sent out to the battlefield, should not be sent out to a place where his lack of moral conduct would've been praised. It was little wonder the world did not appreciate him, for how could they cherish a boy so indifferent to loss of others?

He turned to the Hokage, fearful, afraid that he'd be found out, and mumbled in a low, almost incomprehensible whisper, "I do...I do care for him, Hokage-sama. I do…"

A lie, but not his first, nor his last.

He left ten minutes later, the Hokage's unspoken words playing in his mind. Sweat poured down his back, and he'd stood, frozen, stricken with terror outside his own door. He _ knew_. The Hokage _knew_ that he felt no emotion for his son. That no matter how hard he'd strived to be the traditional father, the father who fit into the filial puzzle with practiced ease, he would never succeed. Was he not a monster too then? Just like his son, a monster, a psychologically disfigured _adult_.

_It's scary how easy familial ties are shattered, like glass, so fragile, oh so fragile._

* * *

**three**

Fugaku knew his son's mask, but he couldn't remember when the boy had donned it. Since his birth, he'd known his son was bright, too bright to survive in Konoha. He remembered protecting the boy at home; shielding him from the predatory society that he knew would one day rise as the victor.

In his early years, Itachi's smiles (though few and far in between) were truthful, a mixture of excitement and blithesome cheer. To keep the boy's bubbly optimism, Fugaku spoke little of the true world of ninja, and instead wove intricate tales of handsome, princess-rescuing knights. Itachi had been happy then, the epitome of an ignorant, illiterate child. The Uchiha clan had lauded the boy with praises, calling him, "The true fruit of the Uchiha," and proclaiming (with far too much hope), "Itachi will thrive in Konoha. Thrive and bring glory to our clan."

Years passed, and the toddler grew into a pensive six-year-old, a product of the propaganda machine mislabeled the "Academy". At first, his son had been excited at the prospect of school, still holding that obsolete, rosy view of the world Fugaku had tried hard to drill. Fugaku had smiled, a fake smile, a perfect mask for Itachi to later emulate.

He had sat at home in apprehension that night, knowing that his son's bright view of the world was about to be shattered. He chanced nervous glances at the clock at selected intervals—three hours, two hours, thirty minutes, three seconds.

His son came home saying nothing, and chose to head straight for his room, bookbag clutched tightly as though it were a sacred artifact. He did not come out the rest of the afternoon (except for a short dinner at Mikoto's beckoning), and Fugaku did not dare question his actions. It was not that he was afraid of the boy, no, but that there was something in Itachi's eyes, something...uncanny. Fugaku couldn't quite pinpoint what it was, but he knew that it was negative, even painful, perhaps. He never did find out the catalyst at school that day.

Days, weeks, months passed, and Itachi descended, almost too rapidly to witness with the naked eye. Fugaku was left to claw at the remains, a shell of a body, a ghost that he could neither love nor defend. It was his first rift, and he had no experience in amending it.

_Without a safety net, children fall, so quickly, sans restraint. Then comes the crunching of bones, a sickening sound, and the parents, disgusted, turn away._

* * *

**four**

Fugaku, his uncle, was taking him out to dinner tonight. He always loved those nights—the glorious, glorious food—grilled shrimp, stuffed salmon, and every kind of imaginable desert. It was too bad that Itachi wasn't going to be there—they could've enjoyed a game of hide and seek together. Though the game wasn't always fun (Itachi won a bit too often for Obito's taste), he still looked forward to the challenge. Talking with his uncle, though ego-boosting ("Obito-kun, you're the pride of the Uchiha!"), could also be rather bland.

"Uncle Fugaku! Are we going to that steak place you took me to last time?" Obito flashed him a bright smile, arms still raised in a wave.

Fugaku nodded, a solemn look on his face, a look that made Obito almost feel concerned. Fugaku didn't usually look like that—he'd always held his head up in full confidence (he was, after all, the Uchiha's famed attorney), but today he looked as though he wanted to impart to Obito some heavy secret……was this Itachi-related? Surely his uncle would've grown out of the depression behind his son's departure—after all his mother had said that Itachi was only being sent to a special school in the outskirts of Konoha.

"Obito-kun…" A low, hoarse, whisper came forth from the man's throat.

Obito pulled back slightly, frightened by the look on his uncle's face. "A-ah…yes?"

"If you were given the choice between your clan and your lover, what would you choose?"

Obito fidgeted slightly, nervous under the heat of his uncle's intense stare. "The clan…and my lover? Eh…wait…what kind of choice is this, Uncle Fugaku?"

"Suppose our clan was being held by enemy ninja, and to get them back, you had to trade the love of your life, and your love of life is not here to help you make a decision."

Obito paused for a moment, eyes narrowing in thought, "Well…I'd go and fight the stupid enemy ninja! And then I'd rescue my clan!" He then jabbed his finger into the air, as though promoting his line of thought.

Fugaku cracked a smile. His nephew sure was naïve…it was no wonder he'd been made the icon of respect among the Uchihas. He tried imagining Itachi's answer—"It would depend on how much I love this person, and whether that many people is worth less than this person." But all the same, none of those answers helped his current predicament. He'd have to reword things for Obito's sake—"Well, what if it's impossible to rescue your clan? If you had to sacrifice, who would you?"

Obito shot him a scowl, evident that he was unhappy with the allotted choices. "Fine, if I had to choose…my lover would stay 'cause I'd probably love this person more than the clan."

"Even at the expense of all those people?"

"Well…we buy 'n sell stuff at the expense of other people too…" Obito stretched out the 'too' in an attempt at a pout.

Fugaku's shoulders slumped further. Obito's words magnified the guilt, guilt that was embedded in his mind, a tumor, growing, taking over with alarming alacrity. His hands felt their way around his temples, attempting (in vain) to assuage the shooting pains. The clan had praised him, he remembered, lauded him with fruit baskets and elaborate dinners, exultant that their lives were not in danger. Konoha, too, had smiled upon him in favor, excited at the prospect of evidence to indict Itachi.

But he hadn't once thought of the connections he'd severed in the name of justice, of the lives he'd ruined, of the integrity of his accusations, of…of I…ta—Itachi. Itachi! It was his son, dammit! His son, and he could hardly say the boy's name! No, no, he shook his head. The boy was never his son, Itachi was cold, apathetic, a callous…

_Here lies a government capable of crumbling a human's base instinct to protect its offspring. Here lies the government of Konohagakure no Sato._

* * *

"That's enough. Uchiha has accepted the mission." 

A ghostly smile graced the guard's face, "Oh really? Hatake's in luck then." He slung the baton over his shoulders, used his spare arm to sling Itachi into the cell, and promptly left the lightless room. Stupid jailbrats, now he could finally find some time for himself.

A small pool of blood stained the floor; still wet, still fresh, still holding the metallic odor of rust. Itachi's jaws tightened, legs shied away from the still body, afraid that being caught in conversation would render him in a similar state. Then he reminded himself of the mission, of the luxury to free speech. Yes, he would wait for the boy to awake, as long as it took, he would stick it out. That was all that was left, besides.

It was nearly an hour later when the boy began to stir, dried blood still clinging onto his face, like flies on rotten meat. His eyes widened (such a terrified, terrified look) as they fell upon Itachi's still figure. A low, nasal grunt formed in his throat, but no coherent words came out. Itachi gulped, not sure what to say. He had to be subtle, he reminded himself, subtle, or be dead. He should say something though…something, anything…

"That guard's getting transferred." A rumor he'd heard along his trek back to the jail cell. So not entirely confirmed, but it was subtle.

The other boy looked up, surprise lighting his features for a moment before it died down to suspicion. The guard, the deprecating man, was being transferred? Such was a miracle come true! But he knew better: miracles simply did not exist in reality, and certainly not miracles in his favor. Then, after a clear of his throat, he muttered, "So? Another one's just gonna replace him."

Itachi cast a glance away from the boy. Jaded, jaded, they were both just too entrenched in the dark patches of the world, too cynical to believe childish hopes. Given the chance to leave this alive, they should both have their brains rewired, rewired to live as the perfectly average citizen in the perfectly average world. Voice grating with a tired texture, he replied, "This guard's different. His brother was killed by a supposed 'genius' ninja from the Mist. He's got a reason to be angry."

The other boy—no, it was Hatake. Hatake as the warden had called him, did not reply. Instead, he sat with a resigned tautness, giving the wall a sullen stare, whether of anger or boredom Itachi did not know. Hoping the conversation would not snuff on such a short note, Itachi ventured again, "Hatake-san, that—"

"Kakashi."

When there was no reply, Kakashi reiterated, "Call me that."

This drew forth a nod from Itachi, and he sounded the name in his throat, "Kakashi." It looked as though he was about to continue when his throat constricted in a grunt, eyes darted about, seemingly worried about spies hidden in the darkness. Then, in a hoarse whisper, he spoke, "They—you—where do your loyalties lie?"

Kakashi stared at him, suspicion creeping into his mind. There it was again, that standard Academy question used to weed out infiltrators. What was he supposed to say? That he was "not of Konoha, not Iwa, not Suna, but Oto"? That he was loyal to Konoha only? That he had his own loyalties he no longer wished to speak of? No, he could not tell his jail-mate the truth, not when they'd only interacted for a few minutes. Not when he was unsure if the Uchiha was merely a pawn of the government, an acting interrogator. But if he lied—**if** he lied—how much better would that be? Millions of opinions could be formed with just one lie, and if he later told a truth that contradicted the current lie, they'd never believe him no matter how much he screamed. But he had to answer, silence was not an—

"They'll ask you that question. They'll ask it a lot, every time they bring you to the T&I unit. You—I still don't know what the right answer is yet."

Kakashi was relieved; the conversation was becoming impersonal now, no longer centering on **_his_** loyalties or **_his_** ideals. He could participate now; participate without fear of being hunted, without need to watch his back after every word. "Maybe if you were consistent, they'd...you know..."

"Well, that's already too late for me. They twist your words...Whatever you say can be taken literally or figuratively or any way they want, as long as it comes to their advantage. They don't..." Itachi trailed off, not sure if the officials that were sure to be watching his progress would take offense at him calling their government "shit".

"They don't care," Kakashi finished for him, and then added, "Why, did you expect them to?"

"No," Itachi mumbled, suddenly recalling the tales his father used to tell him. Tales of knights and princesses, tales that always ended with the princess and knight living happily ever after. Why hadn't his father taken the time to prepare him for reality? He'd known that Itachi was likely to be condemned as a genius, hell, he'd _known_ and yet he'd pretended as though life was a breeze. Was he hoping that Itachi didn't survive once the real world came to greet him? Did he just not care?

He stared at Kakashi then, wondering if _his_ father cared. Did his father falter at aiding his son in meeting the real world as well? Were all fathers just too protective of their sons? So protective that in the end..."Kakashi...did your father...did he..."

"What?" Kakashi's eyes narrowed and he turned on Itachi abruptly, eyes boring an entwined hatred so deep that no one could see the source. "Did he commit crimes against the government? Is that what you want to know?" His voice had turned into a vehement snarl, one that was reserved for nettlesome government officials. "Go ask my father!" he muttered harshly, chains clattering with the floor as he stood, "Go ask him! I don't know about his affairs! Ask _him_!" He'd forgotten. Trust...what idiot had invented the damned word? It was obvious no segment of life could be described by it; least of all some jail-mate he thought might've shared his experience in life.

"That's not what I meant!" Itachi protested, finally realizing the mistake he'd made. Just hours from his assigned mission, and he'd already failed. Why hadn't he thought before speaking? Shouldn't he have _known_ by now, known that the whole world was too good at twisting words to mean what they please? _ Dammit, dammit, dammit all!_

"Fine then! What did you mean, eh? I refuse—"

"No, listen! I wanted to know if he...your father...lied..."

"I already told you! If you want to know if he lied to the government, ask _him_!" He glared at Itachi, catching his breath a bit before finishing, "Why the hell did Konoha send you anyway? You're a horrible interroga—"

"I'm not an interrogator! You—you don't understand what I'm talking about! I don't care if your father lied to the government—I want to know if he lied to you about reality! But forget it—you're not going to—"Itachi cut himself off, trying to process the myriad of half-lies and half-truths that he'd just spouted. Remembering them as time went on was sure to be a hassle...

With those words said, Kakashi visibly calmed, looking almost sheepish as he replied quietly, "Well...yeah, he did." Of course Sakumo had lied; his father wouldn't have thought a six-year-old was old enough to help confront irascible governments. At the mention of his father, he wondered if the man was in a similar quandary--stuck in a jail cell and fit with a title as "enemies of the state". No protest, no gripe of dissent, no nothing escaped their mouths. Then, in a couple years, the jail would expectorate them, withered, atrophied beings that had lost the ability to survive. They would wander about, perhaps taking on a mission here and there, and in another year, find themselves behind bars again, for yet another "crime against the government".

What a cycle it was.

"Uchiha-san, those reeducation camps, do you think they'd be worse or better than this?"

Itachi grimaced at the mention of his clan name—his clan had probably disowned him by now. His father had mentioned that Shishui was disowned after spending four nights in jail; he himself might as well hold the same fate. "Just say Itachi," he muttered finally, "And I don't know if they're worse or better. But if you're thinking of getting transferred...well...it's reeducation. They're gonna reprogram your mind and turn you into a robot. Least you can think what you want in jail."

Kakashi nodded in reply. Yes, he knew they'd probably bequeath genjutsu after genjutsu on him in a reeducation camp, but there was a far higher chance of escape when he wasn't stuck behind _iron_ bars. He could find some way to ignore the genjutsu there then, and abandon the country within weeks. He heard the Rock took in plenty of missing-nins, especially those that had abandoned Konoha as "enemies of the state". He could head there, and then—

"It's also hard to transfer. They only take the easily convinced ones, and I don't think you'd fit their criteria."

Kakashi held back a smirk, and murmured, "Not that I'd _want _to fit their criteria..."

Their conversation continued with light banter, topics ranging from their Academy days to the large rats that were glaring at the duo with greedy eyes. They both knew Itachi was circumventing his main reason for initiating the conversation. Kakashi wasn't sure what it was, and so could not nudge the other boy in the right direction. Itachi was hesitant in mentioning it—another rumor he'd heard on his walk back, a rumor that marked their eventual demise. If he told it now...it was just too depressing to tell now. But if he left it for later, there wouldn't be sufficient time to prepare—

Hastily, he blurted out, "We have one month."

Kakashi turned, abruptly, chains clattering against the floor. "One month to what?" The fear in his eyes was evident.

"To save the"—here Itachi's voice found itself caught in a strangled garble—"bird from the serpent."

_Save the bird from the serpent. The bird from the serpent. Bird from serpent. Bird. Serpent. Bird…Serpent…Bird…Look underneath the underneath, dammit!_ He couldn't forget that, the message his father had imparted him on his sixth birthday, the last birthday he'd spent without the hindrance of iron bars and damp floors. The Uchiha, though he'd always been told by his father not to trust Uchihas, seemed to want to warn him. But what was this serpent? Who was the bird? The serpent from legends was the epitome of evil, but the bird held no historical implications. Was it the balance to society? The dealer of fate? Karma? Prudent judgment?

A minute later, as the list of options dwindled, realization hit him. Eyes wide and mouth curved in a smirk, Kakashi enquired, "This bird…what will happen to the bird in one month?"

"The serpent will...devour it. Like all other birds before it."

Cold sweat lathered his palms, sweat mixed with fear and horror, like fishhooks clawing at his heart. Lie…lie…this…please let this be a lie…He recounted the Academy sayings—"Konoha is here for the protection of its citizens." The protection of its citizens…protection of its citizens…protection of its…His face hardened, jaws taut in determination, "That's a shinobi's job. We'll…we'll…defeat the serpent." His father's words, spoken nearly a year ago, came back to him.

A shinobi's job. Though they weren't yet shinobi, and probably would never be shinobi.

When he looked back, he thought he saw a ghostly image of Itachi, the beginnings of a smile forming upon his face.

_Like fitting the pieces._

**End Notes:** Crap, I think they sound too old at six (they're using too many big words! I didn't know 'criteria' when I was six...though 'interrogator' is jargon for them, I guess). But if I make them sound younger, they sound like babies...which just doesn't work. Ugggh. Maybe I'll make my brother (who's six) read this and tell me if he understands what they're saying.


End file.
